When my son found a filthy, one-eyed teddy bear half-buried in the grass, I didn’t want to take it home—but he refused to let it go. That night, as I brushed its belly while he slept, something clicked inside, and a trembling voice whispered his name, begging for help.
Every Sunday, my son, Mark, and I would take a walk together.
We’d been doing it for two years now, ever since my wife passed away.
No matter how exhausted I was, no matter how many emails piled up or paperwork sat waiting on my desk, we walked. Just the two of us.
Mark needed it. Honestly, I did too.
He’s a bright, gentle kid in ways that worry me, because the world isn’t always gentle back.
Since his mom died, everything feels sharper to him. He flinches at sudden noises, asks questions I don’t always know how to answer.
He watches me like he’s waiting for me to disappear too.
Some days, I still forget she’s gone. I’ll turn to tell her something, and the space where she stood is just empty air.
Those moments gut me, but I can’t let Mark see it.
I can’t let him know that his 36-year-old dad has no clue how to do this alone.
